


Happy New Year (or How Traditions Are Born)

by Kima



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M, New Year's Eve, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9200570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kima/pseuds/Kima
Summary: Before it becomes a set tradition, it’s the idea born of a very drunk and whiny mind of one Viktor Nikiforov. Otabek isn't entirely sure how he let himself be talked into spending New Year's in Moscow but here he is and it's very much not what he expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evlytheevilqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evlytheevilqueen/gifts).



> Ok so first of all, I blame ALL of this on Katja. Whenever she's involved, things turn to crack which is why I have absolutely no idea how it turned out so long.  
> I set out to write cute domestic fluff and instead got 6k worth of absolute crack. But eh, now at least it's out of my system.
> 
> For the record, the horribly pink mini Christmas tree is definitely entirely Katja's fault because she's the one who bought that pink plastic nightmare.
> 
> I've thrown in some Russian words and references because I simply couldn't resist but everything is explained in the end notes, in case anyone is interested. And I apologize for anyone who actually understands any of the references (and I swear, I have nothing against Alla Pugacheva, she's the Russian Madonna for a reason).
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr, I'm joyfullychaotic :)

Before it becomes a set tradition, it’s the idea born of a very drunk and whiny mind of one Viktor Nikiforov.

 

Otabek has never much interacted with the other skaters, not until Yuri, anyway. And Yuri is an exception – they’ve known each other for barely two days and already they’re both cheering each other on (unheard of for the Russian Fairy who mostly just glares and sulks and definitely does not yell Russian encouragements when another skater is stepping on the ice during the last performance of the Grand Prix). He’s never really been interested in any of the others and if he’s completely honest, he’s actually somewhat intimidated by Viktor. Then again, who isn’t? Five times consecutive Grand Prix champion, several world championships and Olympic medals under his belt, easy the most decorated skater since… ever, probably.

So Otabek doesn’t expect much when Viktor, drunk and flushed red from dancing all night with Katsuki Yuuri (or “Katsudon“ as Yuri insists on calling him and Otabek still, for the life of him, can’t figure out why despite Google helpfully telling him about it being a Japanese dish because surely, this can’t be all of it), approaches the table he and Yuri have claimed for themselves, far away from the commotion that are Chris, Phichit and JJ in close quarters. Banquets, man. Otabek hates them but dutifully attends because, well. His coach insists on it. Something about him not being allowed to become a grouchy hermit at only 18 years old.

What he gets, instead of Viktor proclaiming his love for Yuuri for the third time that evening, is an invitation to Viktor’s apartment for New Year’s. Otabek doesn’t take it seriously because well, the last time somebody got drunk during a banquet, there were dance-offs and pole dancing and he might have had to bleach his brain after seeing Chris Giacometti basically hump a stripper pole for half the night (where had that pole even come from, seriously). But then, a few days later, the very confused Kazakh finds himself standing in Moscow instead of Barcelona, a grumbling Yuri standing next to him at the airport.

He’s still not quite sure why or how Viktor got both of them to agree to it but it’s the 31st of December and here they are, Yuri holding a transport box with his huge white cat Myshka inside, waiting for the cab that is supposed to deliver them to Viktor’s apartment.

“ _Blyat_ , can’t believe the fuckwad talked us into this,“ Yuri complains next to him and Otabek automatically replies,

“Language.“

“ _Da poshel ty nachuy!_ ”

Otabek lets out a long-suffering sigh because he might have been friends with Yuri for only about a week but he’s already given up the fight against the younger boy’s love for profanity. For someone looking so innocent, he swears worse than every sailor Otabek has ever had the unpleasure to hear (his mother would be appalled).  He opens his mouth to reply but in that moment, a cab screeches to halt next to them and one of the back doors opens to reveal an elderly, bearded man with kind eyes.

“Yuratchka!” he calls and grins as Yuri just gapes, his mouth wide open and green eyes round.

“Dedushka?!” Otabek doesn’t even have time to frown before Yuri is already launching himself at the old man, nearly hitting his head on the car roof, to wrap him in a fierce hug, screeching cat squeezed between them. The Kazakh blinks and chuckles a bit while Yuri does his best to strangle his grandfather in a hug.

“How did you know we were here?” Yuri finally asks after letting go (but still blocking the car door and half sitting in his grandfather’s lap, the little ass). “I thought you’d be at Uncle Dmitri’s place this year?”

“Oh, there was this delightful young man who called me and asked if I wanted to spend New Year’s with my ever elusive grandson,” the older Plisetsky chuckles, eyes twinkling. “How could I say no? And now move, Yuratchka, your friend is freezing and Myshka doesn’t appreciate being jostled around like this, you know that.” Yuri actually flushes pink and mumbles an apology (what the actual hell), moving off his grandfather so the old man can lean out and hold out a gloved hand for Otabek.

“Nikolai Plisetsky,” he introduces himself and Otabek nearly drops his duffel bag in his hurry to grab and shake the offered hand. “I’m guessing you’re the boy from Kazakhstan who I’ve been hearing about so much from Yura lately?”

“Err, yes,” Otabek stutters, ever awkward with social interactions. “Otabek Altin. It’s very nice to meet you, Nikolai Vasilyevich.” Boy, is he glad that Yuri has told him his grandfather’s patronymic during that first dull hour of the banquet after the Grand Prix. Before everyone decided to get drunk off their asses and Viktor got this whole crazy idea of spending New Year’s Eve with his fellow skaters as a late birthday present to himself.

“Likewise, young man.”

Grandpa Plisetsky nods, obviously impressed and satisfied with the polite response, even as Yuri rolls his eyes grumbling about Otabek sucking up to old people. Otabek politely ignores him, as does Yuri’s grandfather who lets go of Otabek’s hand and attempts to get out of the cab to go and grab their bags.

“ _Ded_ , no!” Yuri huffs and pushes the old man back into his seat with mild force. “Stay where you are, you’ll just hurt your back again!” Even as Nikolai huffs and grouches about not being so old yet, the boys hastily gather their bags and climb into the back of the cab, the driver already in the familiar bad mood that every Russian cab driver has (Otabek silently wonders if being grumpy and unfriendly is a job requirement). No sooner than all of them are seated, Myshka and her transport box secure on Nikolai’s lap with the old man cooing to the happily purring cat, the cab starts moving, driving away from the airport and straight into the city where traffic, predictably, is a complete mess. Otabek sinks into his seat and wonders once again why he’s not in Kazakhstan with his parents and siblings. Not that he regrets getting to spend some more time with Yuri before they’re both back to their insane training regiments before the world championships; it’s just that he still doesn’t understand how he let himself be talked into this insanity. But well, he’s here already, so he might as well enjoy it, right?

The ride to Viktor’s apartment isn’t so much long as it’s exhausting because the cab driver keeps listening to god-awful Russian music from the 80s and apparently thinks he’s the next Valeriy Miladze (which he’s not, nope, no way). Otabek isn’t the only one to breathe with relief when they finally exit the car and the cab disappears into the late evening traffic of Moscow’s city center. Because of course that’s where Viktor lives – in a tall skyscraper that’s probably filled to the brim with apartments, though undoubtedly much classier than the ones Otabek is used to.

“Your friend is rich, yes?” Nikolai asks which prompts Yuri to launch into a rant about how he’s totally not friends with fucking Viktor Nikiforov. Otabek sighs and goes up to the front door to ring the doorbell next to Viktor’s last name.

“ _Kto tam_?” Viktor’s tinny voice sounds from the speaker and Otabek can’t help but reply, deadpan,

[“ _Pochtalyon Pechkin._ ”](https://youtu.be/ANUSk3hWRkI?t=1m41s) It’s silent for a moment before Viktor’s pearly laughter echoes from the speaker and Otabek winces from the volume. He patiently waits for Viktor to recover (while Yuri is still ranting to his grandfather who listens to his grandson with an amused smile) and then says,

“It’s Otabek. And Yuri.”

“You came!” Viktor actually sounds surprised. Otabek blinks.

“Uh, you invited us?”

“Yes but… Ah, my manners! Come in, come in!” The door buzzes open and Otabek quickly pushes at it before Viktor lets go of the buzzer, putting one foot between the door and the doorway and turning around to the Plisetskys.

“It’s open,” he informs them quietly, wisely choosing to do so while Yuri is catching his breath before continuing on with his angry rant. Nikolai looks away from his grandson’s flushed face and smiles.

“See, Yuratchka, your friend has manners. You should spend more time with Otabek, he’ll be good for you.” Otabek can feel his cheeks and tips of his ears bloom with color that has literally nothing to do with the cold of Russian winter. Yuri, impossibly, turns even redder and shuts up, just clutching Myshka’s transport box to his chest. Obviously satisfied with himself and embarrassing both boys, Nikolai takes his own bag and walks up the stairs, huffing with each step so Otabek promptly hopes that there’s an elevator inside.

It turns out that there is and they squeeze into it, bags and complaining cat in tow. The elevator takes them to the very top of the apartment building because of course that’s where Viktor Nikiforov lives – on the very top. Otabek would make a joke if he still wasn’t trying to reign in his blush.

The elevator door pings open and they’re greeted by Viktor himself, wearing the most awful und ugliest party hat Otabek has ever seen, nearly vibrating out of his skin with joy as he shouts:

“Happy upcoming new year!!” The next thing Otabek knows is that he’s being squeezed in an awkward hug by Russia’s most celebrated skater along with Yuri and his grandfather, Viktor’s dog happily barking in the background through the wide open door of the apartment, Katsuki Yuuri smiling apologetically and holding on to the poodle’s collar so it doesn’t pounce on them as overly enthusiastic as its owner.

Otabek very suddenly and intensely regrets ever agreeing to this.

But now it’s too late to turn back as they’re being ushered inside by Viktor who’s babbling nonstop about how happy he is that they came because Phichit and Chris already had other engagements and couldn’t come and how he was so worried that they’d bought too much food all while the poodle is still happily barking at them. Otabek glances at Yuri who hisses more than his cat and tries to wriggle out of Viktor’s grasp which seems to be completely futile. And the older Plisetsky, to his grandson’s horror, is not only enjoying himself but happily hugs Viktor back and thanks him for the invitation after which Viktor promptly introduces Yuuri as the love of his life and fiancé which has the old man chuckle and say hello to Yuuri in broken English.

Otabek fears the force of nature that is Viktor Nikiforov.

Yuuri collects their coats, mumbling embarrassed apologies for his fiancé in English, and Otabek quickly steps out of the way as Nikolai bends down to great Viktor’s poodle after everyone has received and put on a pair of house shoes.

“Such a good boy,” the old man coos. “Aren’t you a pretty boy?” The dog nearly trips over its own paws in its eagerness to both lick the old man’s ears and present its belly for rubs and Nikolai laughs.

“Yura, why don’t you let Myshka out of that box? We should see if those two get along,” he suggests and Otabek already sees horrible images flash before his inner eyes, of cat and dog fighting and clawing their way through the apartment. To his big ad utter surprise however, none of that happens.

As it is, Myshka hisses a little at Viktor as she steps out of her transport box, throws a haughty glance at the poodle and then promptly lifts both her head and her tail as she walks past all of them and into what Otabek assumes is the living room to plop down on the sofa as if it belongs to her. He blinks and then thinks that it figures – like owner, like pet.

The poodle is too stunned to move for a second – as are all of them – and then bounds after the cat to dutifully sit in front of her and whining for attention. Myshka sniffs at him, lets out a sigh and rolls over just enough that the dog can jump up on the sofa next to her.

Not even a minute later, both animals seem to be happily asleep.

Otabek is both impressed and terrified.

“ _Prekrasno,_ ” Nikolai declares, delighted. “That takes care of that. Now…” The old man shuffles around in his bag and then produces a plate of sliced cherry pie.

“Oh, Nikolai Vasilyevich, you shouldn’t have!” Viktor’s smile reveals his joy though as he takes the plate of pie. “I did tell you not to bother, you’re a guest.”

“ _Chepukha_!” the old man replies with a huff. “It’s impolite to arrive empty-handed to a party. Speaking off, Yura, I hope you didn’t forget your manners?” Otabek hastily fumbles with the bottle of champagne he bought at the airport and hands it over to Viktor, mumbling his thanks for the invitation because despite what everyone thinks, he was not actually raised in a barn by wolves out in the steppe of Kazakhstan. And Yuri… the little shit grumbles some muffled profanities under his breath and takes out an atrocity of a tiny plastic Christmas tree, glittery und garishly pink and completely hideous.

“Yura, _nyet_!” Nikolai and Otabek exhale in mute horror while Yuuri just gapes at the pink monstrosity that Viktor, after handing both cake and champagne to him, clutches to his chest, blinking rapidly. Otabek doesn’t even want to know where and when Yuri got hold of that horrible thing, they’ve been together the entire time since they left Barcelona. But Viktor, well, he loves surprising people. And to everyone’s surprise (but not really because, after all, this is Viktor Nikiforov they’re speaking of), Viktor looks at Yuri with such a happy and joyous expression that Plisetsky actually takes a step back.

“Yura, _da_!” Viktor whispers and then grabs Yuri for another hug, despite all of the latter’s protests and profanities. Yuuri sighs, very quietly, as if he, too, has long since given up on his fiancé (though Otabek isn’t fooled, there’s the glint of exasperated fondness in Yuuri’s eyes) and motions towards the living room in broken Russian. Nikolai smiles and follows the Japanese skater, obviously not minding the botched vowels and consonants that leave Yuuri’s mouth and instead correcting him gently, all the while patting Yuuri’s back.

Otabek is so out of his comfort zone. But he pushes down all the confusion and overwhelming feelings down with the expertise of someone long used to not dealing with people and gingerly sits down on the sofa next to the sleeping animals while Yuuri maneuvers Nikolai in the plush armchair that has the best view of the TV; Channel One is already on and showing Russia’s VIPs singing and laughing and wishing everyone a happy upcoming new year even though it’s only 3 pm, still hours to go until midnight.

With Viktor still hugging Yuri in the hallway, Yuuri turns to Otabek and asks, in English,

“Can you cook? I wasn’t sure and I’d need some help in the kitchen because Viktor is completely useless, to be honest.” Otabek blinks in surprise and smiles apologetically.

“Uh, sorry,” he replies. “I’m not actually really much of a chef.” It’s weird to speak English, with Yuri’s grandfather in the room and Russian songs on TV. “But Yuri is really good.” It’s not a lie; during the few days between the Grand Prix gala and their flight to Moscow, Yuri was in charge of coking because as it turns out, he can memorize not only complex skating routines but also recipes.

“Is he?” Yuuri seems honestly surprised and Otabek nods, impossibly proud of his friend.

“He learned from his grandfather.” Yuuri glances at Nikolai thoughtfully but before he can formulate a botched attempt to ask for help in Russian, Viktor and Yuri enter the room, both flushed red – though probably not for the same reasons. Otabek guesses it’s embarrassment for Yuri and the exhaustion of trying to hug the younger skater properly despite the latter’s best impression of a prickly street cat.

“Everyone’s seated, perfect!” Viktor exclaims, rubbing his hands together in obvious satisfaction. “Now, Yurio, would you mind helping Yuuri in the kitchen?”

“That’s not my name!” Yuri hisses instead of an answer. “Can’t you just call me Yura again?”

“But it’s so much more fun to tease you!” Yuri explodes in a new fountain of profanities while Viktor just laughs and laughs and laughs. Nikolai watches them curiously and then half lifts himself out of the armchair, saying,

“Oh, I can help in the kitchen, I don’t mind…”

“Ugh, Ded,” Yuri grunts, suddenly stopping his angry rant and stomping over to his grandfather to push him down onto the chair again. “Just… stay here, _da_? I’ll help in the kitchen.” Nikolai opens his mouth to protest but Viktor interrupts, one hand already on Yuri’s shoulder,

“No no, that’s alright. Nikolai Vasilyevich, please stay here. You’re a guest!”

“And what am I?” Yuri snaps, straightening up abruptly and furiously pushing Viktor’s hand away. Viktor just laughs.

“Why, you’re family of course!” He drags off the loudly protesting Yuri towards the kitchen and Yuuri just chuckles quietly, following them. A minute later, Viktor is firmly banned from the kitchen by both Yu(u)ris, much to their host’s pouting disappointment.

“But Yuuri,” he wails in English at the closed kitchen door. “I want to help!”

“Go set the table!” Yuuri’s exasperated voice calls back, a hint of laughter in it. Viktor pouts some more but obediently goes off to set the table, still looking unfairly elegant while doing so. Nikolai chuckles at him from the armchair and nods sagely as he lets out some wisdom about not disturbing the chef while cooking.

Otabek remains awkwardly seated on the sofa, still feeling not entirely at home and still wondering what he’s even doing here. Sure, he’s friends with Yuri but they’ve only been talking for about a week now. And Viktor? He’s never really talked to Viktor either, except for the odd congratulation during a competition. And then there’s Yuuri and Nikolai and Otabek is so very out of his depth that he just sinks into his seat on the sofa, absently scratching Myshka’s fur who’s purring happily against his thigh and sinking her claws into it from time to time.

Viktor strikes up a conversation with Nikolai, assuring the old man at least three times that no, he does not need help setting the table, and after a few minutes, the two are talking as if old friends, Nikolai comfortably calling Viktor Vitya and, while not offering to drop the patronymic or the polite form of you, telling him stories about how Yuri started out skating. Otabek listens raptly, curious beyond reason about how his new friend came to skating and how he got those soldier eyes that Otabek is still completely fascinated with even though said soldier eyes light up whenever they see him and Yuri frowns a lot less when it’s just the two of them.

“And you, Otabek?” Nikolai’s voice suddenly interrupts Otabek’s musings about the younger Plisetsky. “How did you get into skating?”

And just like that, he’s part of the conversation.

It moves on from his beginnings to how he grew up in Kazakhstan, Nikolai reminiscing about the Soviet Union and how Kazakhstan is probably the most successful country to emerge from its ashes in the early 90s, talking excitedly about that one Kazakh dish he tried in his youth and could never remember the name of. Otabek helpfully suggests a few he knows from his grandmother and next thing he knows, they’re discussing dishes from different countries, Viktor pitching in with dishes from Japan and after someone on TV quotes a movie, they’re suddenly heads deep in a discussion about their favorite movies.

By the time it’s nearing 7 pm and Otabek realizes just how hungry he actually is, he’s comfortable in his own skin, cuddling with Myshka who is sprawled out over his lap by now while Viktor has his lap full of Makkachin on his left. Nikolai is currently telling them about how work at a factory back when he was young and Otabek stands up, excusing himself, with the absolute intention to go to the toilet. Myshka is everything but pleased when he lifts her off his legs but is easily calmed down by Nikolai taking her instead, purring into the wool of the old man’s sweater instead, so Otabek leaves the room but he stops as he passes the kitchen. The door isn’t closed anymore since Viktor gave up on trying to join the dinner preparations and Otabek pushes it open some more curiously after Yuri’s hoarse laugh rings out. To his big surprise, the kitchen table is completely full of food (Lord in heaven, who’s supposed to even eat all that, why are Russians always cooking so much) and Yuuri and Yuri are by now both wrist deep in two bowls of some dough, talking quietly between themselves.

For the first time since Otabek has known Yuri, the younger boy seems completely comfortable in someone’s presence who isn’t his grandfather or Otabek himself. In fact, Yuuri has removed his glasses while he works and Yuri’s hair is caught in a messy ponytail and even though Yuri continues to call Yuuri “piggy”, they both seem perfectly at ease with each other.

Otabek blinks and looks back to the living room which is painted in soft blue light from the ballad being sung on TV, Viktor and Nikolai still talking comfortably. When did things get so comfortable, anyway? Just a few minutes ago, it seems, he was feeling awkward and wanted to go home to his family and now… he somehow feels oddly at home. What the hell happened?

“Ey, Beka!” He startles and turns around to see Yuri look at him.

“Huh?”

“You just going to stand there and stare? Get in here and help, will you?” Otabek stutters a bit, mumbles some excuses about having to go to the toilet to which Yuri only replies to hurry the hell up and get back into the kitchen because they need someone to carry at least half the food into the living room because they’re running out of space and the cake and piroshki are still not done yet.

“I’ll have to run laps around the rink for weeks,” Otabek complains to himself as he washes his hands a few minutes later. “Grisha will kill me…” Grisha – Gregoriy, actually – is his coach and will most definitely kill him if he sees how much Otabek has gained after this particular social outing because there’s no way Otabek will leave Moscow without at least gaining half his own weight. Not with all the food that’s waiting there in the kitchen.

But he doesn’t actually mind that much, not really. Even with the prospect of having to do laps until he pukes, all the delicious food he keeps carrying to the table Viktor set in the living room makes his mouth water and it’s a beautiful plethora of both traditional Russian dishes as well as some small Japanese ones that Yuuri could make with the limited resources he has here. It looks perfect, nicely decorated with small roses made from tomato peels and small basil leaves – and those are just the first course. He saw glimpses of fish and potatoes and some meat back on the kitchen table that he wasn’t allowed to bring out yet (Yuuri and Yuri in the kitchen together are a combined scary force of waving cooking utensils and fierce glares and oh, his grandmother would love those two). When Otabek returns to the kitchen for the last salad, he finds Yuuri on the phone, laughing and speaking in rapid-fire Japanese with Yuri watching him with a frown.

“His family,” Yuri explains to Otabek’s questioning look. “They’re six hours ahead or so, so it’s already the first over there. They only now came through the lines, I think.” Otabek hums in sympathy; he knows everything about struggling to reach one’s relatives on New Year’s while everyone and their mother is doing the same.

“Are you done yet?” he asks instead of inquiring more after Yuuri, turning away to at least give the Japanese skater a semblance of privacy even though Viktor is the only one who actually understands any Japanese at all.

“Almost,” Yuri nods and while he looks a little exhausted, there’s also the faint flush of pride on his cheeks that’s impossibly endearing. “We just have to fill the piroshki… actually, wanna help?” He looks up at Otabek with big, green eyes and… well. Who is Otabek to refuse those eyes?

“Sure, just let me bring this to the table.” He returns to the living room just in time to catch a very guilty-faced Viktor trying to get into the saran-wrapped plate of toast slices with red caviar, holding Yuri’s garishly pink Christmas tree in his other hand. Nikolai is dozing off in the armchair, Myshka a ball of white fluff on his lap.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” Viktor says at once, pulling his fingers away from the toast. Otabek just lifts an eyebrow at him because he might be a quiet person but he’s not an idiot. Viktor seems to understand that too because he starts laughing and instead of trying to steal anything else from the saran-wrapped dishes, he plops down the ugly Christmas tree in the middle of the table.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he beams, obviously proud of himself for finding a place for the ugly thing. Otabek’s mouth twitches with an honest answer to that but he bites it down and sighs instead, telling Viktor not to touch the food again as if he’s a petulant child and not the second oldest person in this apartment.

When he returns to the kitchen, Yuuri is still on the phone, now oddly pink faced and stammering. Yuri rolls his eyes and shoves him out of the kitchen so he and Otabek are alone now.

“ _Durak_ hasn’t talked to them since that engagement those two idiots pulled in Barcelona,” Yuri grouches while picking cherries for the sweet piroshki out of the glass with a bit more force than necessary. He cackles evilly as he starts wrapping the first pirozhok. “Pretty sure his mom is lecturing him on safe sex.”

“Ah.” Otabek wisely decides not to say anything to that. He’s pretty sure he wants to know nothing about the sex lives of Katsuki Yuuri and Viktor Nikiforov. The awkward silence stretches on for a moment before Yuri huffs and mumbles,

“It’s actually nice here. Didn’t think it would be. Stupid Katsudon isn’t… that bad…” The last few words are so quiet that Otabek has to strain his ear to make them out. He looks up at Yuri’s pink face and smiles softly.

“It is nice,” he agrees easily. “Reminds me of home.”

“Yeah?” Yuri looks up at him, obviously curious. So Otabek smiles and starts talking about how they used to spend New Year’s Eve in his family, gathering half the neighborhood for a big and happy party, his mother and grandmother dressed up nicely and his father trying to not get any food into his impressive moustache when they finally sat down to eat. Yuri laughs loudly and tells him about that last New Year’s he spent with his grandfather and Nikolai’s old friends from the factory, never once mentioning his parents. Otabek silently wonders what’s with them but is way too polite to actually ask; he figures that Yuri will tell him in time. Instead, he laughs at the image of a very drunk trio of Russian elderly men singing drinking songs around a 12 year old Yuri.

By the time they’re done with filling the piroshki with cherries and sliced apples, Yuuri is done with his phone call apparently, because they can hear him talking in English with Viktor.

“No lovey-dovey crap in front of my grandpa!” Yuri yells at them, no doubt waking up said grandpa. Otabek grins to himself as Viktor yells back,

“We would never!”

It’s definitely a lot like home.

When the food is finally done and they sit down to eat, it’s already almost 9 pm. Otabek is starving and so are the others, it seems, judging from all the food everyone heaps on their respective plates. He’s especially impressed by Yuri’s portion – it’s bigger than everyone else’s even though he’s the smallest and thinnest in the room. Nobody is stupid enough to comment on that (Viktor does open his mouth but a pointed elbow from Yuuri seems to make him decide otherwise) and they toast to the upcoming new year with some white wine. Yuri, however, wrinkles his nose at the taste and pours his own leftover wine into Otabek’s glass because of course he does. Then he grabs for the bottle of coca cola on the table and fills his glass with that, apparently satisfied with not drinking alcohol (or knowing that he’ll get away with the sugary drink tonight because Yakov is nothing but strict about his protégée’s diet but holidays excuse lots of things).

They eat with the TV still showing the concert on Channel One, Alla Pugacheva and her boy toy Maksim Galkin now crooning some ancient holiday song. Myshka and Makkachin both get a bowl with expensive and fancy food a bit away from the table because they apparently both have a penchant for begging for treats, as Otabek soon learns as Makkachin puts a paw on his thigh and Myshka nudges his legs while purring unashamedly. Their respective owners just laugh and tell him to ignore them but Otabek  sneaks them some pieces from his food while nobody is looking.

After the first course, the meat and fish and potatoes are served and just when Otabek is fairly certain that he’s eaten more than his own weight, Nikolai announces that they need to take a break now before the old man explodes from overeating. Which is how they end up piled on the sofa and the armchair in front of the TV, watching some more Russian VIPs sing their hearts out for the new year.

Viktor and Yuuri choose this moment to dance off some of the calories they just consumed while Nikolai watches on and claps to the rhythm of the songs, amused and delighted.

“Yuratchka, Beka, you should dance too!” he announces, looking pointedly at his grandson.

“’m not a dancer,” Yuri grouches back, sinking so deep into the couch that he’s almost falling off it. “I don’t dance.”

“Oh, I remember you dancing just fine,” Viktor grins. “Last year, when Yuuri…” Yuri lets out an indignant yelp at the same time as Yuuri presses both hands to Viktor’s mouth to silence his fiancé. Otabek is silently grateful for that; he’s not the only one who’s somewhat mortified by the memory of that particular evening.

“ _Da poshel ty_!” Yuri huffs to which Nikolai just shakes his head.

“Yura, again with that language…” Yuri flushes pink at the admonishment and sticks out his tongue at all of them, instead grabbing the innocently napping Myshka and burying his face into her fur while Viktor laughs again. Otabek pats Yuri’s arm in sympathy and Yuri dramatically plasters himself across Otabek’s lap.

“You’re the only normal person here,” the younger skater huffs, face still half buried into his cat. Otabek chuckles and pats Yuri again and decides not to mention that he actually liked Yuri’s dancing in that silly dance-off (and that he’s intensely glad that no one allowed Yuri up on that stripper pole because thankfully, some people still had their brains about them during that banquet).

So they sit and banter and watch some more TV until it’s time for tea and cake and Otabek might let out the most embarrassing sound he ever made when eating as he takes a bite of Nikolai’s cherry pie because it’s heavenly and he eagerly asks for the recipe. He might not be much of a cook but his grandmother is and she loves it when he brings her new recipes.

By the time they’re done with tea, it’s actually close to midnight. Full and warm as they are, they decide against going back out into the cold to watch the fireworks, instead opting to watch them from the living room windows. So when all the fancily clad VIPs, stars and starlets on TV start chanting the countdown, Otabek is gripping the glass of champagne he brought, squeezed between Viktor and Yuri and quietly counting down too. When the counter reaches zero, the room erupts in cheers and the entire night sky is lit up with the lights of myriads of fireworks above Moscow.

“ _S novym godom!_ ” they all yell happily and then Viktor and Yuuri are kissing and Nikolai is laughing because Makkachin jumped on his lap at the first sound of a firework going up and Myshka is screeching somewhere from the bathroom because she hates fireworks. Otabek laughs and turns his head to hug Yuri but before he can actually move, soft lips press against his cheek, just for a moment, before pulling away again.

Otabek stares at the mop of unruly blond hair that’s hiding his best friend’s expression from him – though it can’t hide Yuri’s bright red ears. Otabek blinks and opens his mouth only to close it again because he’s actually out of words and completely dumbfounded by the unexpected kiss.

“Just – just forget it!” Yuri huffs and pushes at him, embarrassed and uncomfortable with the attention. “I just… ugh. Forget it.”

He could do that, of course. But… he doesn’t want to. Because if he’s honest with himself, he’s stupidly besotted with Yuri and has been for years. It’s way too early to tell him that though, so Otabek just smiles and hugs his prickly friend, this cat clad in a skater’s skin.

“ _S novym godom_ , Yura,” he mumbles into Yuri’s hair and the younger boy struggles for a minute more but then gives up and relaxes into the hug, undoubtedly still red as a tomato.

“ _… S novym godom,_ Beka…” He wriggles out of the hug anyway, possibly even redder than before, but Otabek doesn’t mind. Not when, a few hours later, Yuri’s head lolls on Otabek’s shoulder as the blonde whirlwind has finally nodded off on the sofa next to him, half covered by a warm blanket and clutching his cat who has happily curled up into the blanket and is sleeping too. Otabek takes a look around to discover that Nikolai has long since fallen asleep on the armchair, snoring quietly with Makkachin lying on top of the old man’s feet , and Viktor and Yuuri are sitting on the floor in front of the sofa together, wrapped around each other and covered by a second warm blanket; Yuuri’s head is pillowed on Viktor’s chest and they’re talking in hushed whispers as the TV paints the room in soft pastels of the old movie that’s still running – _Priklyuchenie Shurika_ , if he correctly recognizes the blond main character.

Otabek smiles softly and turns his head slightly to bury his nose into the top of Yuri’s hair, smelling faintly of snow and the minty shampoo he uses. He presses a soft kiss into the blond hair and closes his eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of ice and mint.

A happy new year, indeed.

 

After that first year where it’s just the five of them, it becomes a tradition – New Year’s at Nikiforov’s. Sometimes Chris joins in, sometimes Phichit and more often than not, it’s the other Russian skaters. One memorable year, the Nishigori family decides to join in and Otabek can’t remember the last time three little girls have scared him so much.

But it’s nice and warm and feels like _home_ and everybody is honestly happy for them that one year Otabek and Yuri quietly announce their engagement. And if Yuri’s ugly pink Christmas tree from that first year gets company in form of the ugliest Christmas ornaments anyone has ever seen, well, it’s _their_ weird tradition.

And Otabek loves it (even though the pink leopard print ornaments they hang on the actual tree are the stuff of nightmares).

**Author's Note:**

> blyat -- fuck
> 
> da poshel ty nachuy -- basically "ugh go fuck yourself"
> 
> Kto tam? - Pochtalyon Pechkin -- "who's there?" - "mailman Pechkin" (direct quote from a children's movie, the link leads directly to that scene)
> 
> prekrasno -- wonderful
> 
> chepukha -- nonsense
> 
> durak -- idiot
> 
> Alla Pugacheva and Maksim Galkin -- actual Russian VIPs. I'm very sorry.
> 
> da poshel ty -- a less offensive version of fuck you
> 
> s novym godom -- happy new year
> 
> Priklyuchenie Shurika -- an old comedy movie about a student called Alex (nickname Shurik)


End file.
